Drabbleyness
by bauble123
Summary: This is from the sherlock drabble tag, my story bits. Only Because Of You - John/Lestrade, are they the only ones caring when a girl nearly dies? Mirror Image - Sherlock and Lestrade's fathers come to visit, and praise, and complain. His Greatest Fear - Donovan/John, Sherlock has done the unforgivable act. How will John cope? With the help of Sally, prophetess, of course!
1. Only Because Of You (Johnstrade)

So this is all stuff I wrote for the Sherlock Fandom Drabble Tag - in the Sherlock Fanfiction Challenges forum. I highly recommend it!

(if you want the other ones - the John/Sally is the best - look through the chapters)

**John/Lestrade, prompt: fall - Only Because Of You**

They were just walking. That was all. Just two friends walking together through a park on a Sunday afternoon. Nothing more. People like Mrs Hudson would have read something further into it, but there was nothing to be read, or so John kept telling himself. He looked across at the other man and found himself smiling subconsciously. Noticing it, he quickly stopped, and tried to look as stern as his companion.

"You haven't had any interesting cases for a while." he said, trying to make conversation.

"No." Lestrade replied, dryly, his bland tone masking what he really felt.

"That's a shame..."

"I suppose - but it gives me more time to be with friends." He looked down at the shorter man, a glimmer of tenderness showing in his manner. "Friends like you." John smiled bashfully, blushing a little.

"Yeah." The situation might have led to something then, had it not been for the girl. The silence was torn brutally and violently by a high, piercing scream. Lestrade looked up, as did John, pulled back to the present and out of his reverie.

"Oh my god!"

"She's going to fall!" People were gathering from all sides. The girl looked down with a terrified expression. Then her foot slipped and suddenly she was falling. They all saw her go, the flailing arms, the trailing shriek. It was as if it were happening in slow motion. Then it was all broken apart by the dull thud as she hit the floor. Greg and John ran over, pushing their way through the crowd of bystanders.

"I'm a doctor." John called. "Please. I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, but what about 'im?" asked a heavyset man in a leather jacket, pointing a thick finger in Greg's face.

"He's a detective inspector." John explained. Greg gave the man a withering look. He backed down immediately.

"All right then. Yeah. Fine." He pulled away to let them through. John knelt down by the girl, checking her pulse. She was still alive. He felt around her body - a couple of ribs gone, and she'd broken her leg.

"Has someone called an ambulance? Anyone?" There was a sussurus of ashamed muttering. "God, really? No-one?" Greg raised a hand.

"I've done it." he whispered.

"Oh, thank god." John murmured. Greg knelt down beside him.

"You're a wonder, John Watson. You're forever helping people." John looked at him awkwardly, then said a sentence that summed up his life:

"Only because of you."


	2. Mirror Image (fathers shape who we are)

**Sherlock and Lestrade (non-romantic), Fathers - Mirror Image**

"I...like what you've done with the place." he said, looking around and smiling brightly.

_It's amazing, _thought Sherlock, _the ability that the parental instinct has to undermine the evidence. There are blood-stains on the fridge, a moronic-looking yellow smiley face on the wall that, if I recall correctly, as I unfailingly do, I spray-painted while high and a million other things that prove that I am untrustworthy and keeping a pig sty, and yet my father says that he "likes what I've done with the place". I wonder if all fathers are like this? I suppose it must be some kind of instinct. Someone stupid and sentimental - John, say - would call it "fatherly love", I suppose. It must be a need not to let me know that I've done anything wrong, because I am another strong male and he doesn't want to get on the wrong side of me. Wonderful thing, evolution._

...

"What d'you want livin' in this place?" he asked. Lestrade smiled forcedly.

_It's amazing, in a horrible kind of way,_ he thought, _the way my father treats me. I've done well for myself - I'm a detective inspector at Scotland Yard, for God's sake and yet he still treats me like I'm some stupid two year old. It's always been this way. Nothing I do is ever right. I do well at my football match, and he tells me there's a rising star in the year below who is already way better than me and playing at county level; I get married, and he tells me it was a stupid thing to do and it will never turned out right, and that she deserved better than me anyway (I suppose he was right on that point, but he didn't have to be so bloody arrogant about it, did he?)._

...

"Really? You never cease to amaze me." he said, raising his eyebrows at his father.

_I suppose he's cleverer than I'll ever be, _thought Mr Holmes senior, looking at his son, _and he needs space. I always do worry about him though. I mean, when he and Mikey diagnosed the poor boy a psychopath or high functioning socio-something it was bad enough, and I can't help being nervous. He will take those drugs, and it isn't good for him. Mind you, Mikey's just as bad. It's not that they're uncivil when we check up on them - it's just that they're so damn polite. It would be nice to know they cared a little bit about their old dad. But I love him anyway - of course I do. He's my son, and he always will be. My little Sherlock, my delight._

...

"It's a bit of a change, I'll grant you, but I thought it was rather nice. I couldn't stay in the old place with Rachel, Dad. Not after we..." he broke off, staring at the floor.

_What an idiot that boy is, _thought Lestrade Senior, glaring at his son. _I'm so unlucky to be saddled with him. I don't know what I've done to deserve him, I really don't. Always banging on about catching criminals. What the hells do I care about that? Why he can't earn his money like a normal working person, doing some proper moving I don't know. And he looks like he's about to cry just because some girl that was too good for him anyway (and I told him so, but did he listen?) upped and left him. Sissy, he is, big girl's blouse. I was perfectly happy not to see him again, anyway. I mean, the boy's an adult, he doesn't need me constantly checking up on him. But oh, no, he _wants_ me over here. Damn wants it. A bonding exercise or something. Stupid._


	3. His Greatest Fear (Johnovan!)

**John/****Sally: fears -****His Greatest Fear**

They stood outside the building. There was yellow tape surrounding everything, covered in black stripes that made John's vision blur. Police cars and surveillance vans took up the whole street, which was cordoned off for the duration of the operation. People in uniform milled around, keeping back interested passers-by and muttering about the state of things. People not in uniform stood dotted about looking worried. He was in there, somewhere. John realised he really ought to have known this would happen, someday. It felt like it was his fault, like perhaps he hadn't been giving Sherlock the full attention his mental state demanded. But this was it, his greatest fear at last horribly realised.

Sally walked cautiously across to where John stood, a paper cup of coffee in her hand. God, she thought, he looked utterly devastated. Well, she had tried to warn him that this might happen. She was a little shell-shocked herself though, if she was honest. She had only half expected this to happen. It was something of a shock to have the thoughts plaguing the back of her mind suddenly thrust into reality like this. It felt, she mused, almost as if a prophecy she had made was coming true. She'd never imagined herself as a phrophetess before. It was an interesting idea - but no. Stop. She wasn't going to be drawn into benign musings. Not at a time like this.

And besides, she was quite worried about the way John looked. He was staring upwards, wide-eyed, an expression of mingled horror and terror on his face. Sally supposed anyone might look like that, when their best friend had done what Sherlock had. It had to be a horrible feeling. Thank God she'd never had to go through it. But it was mostly the way he didn't react when she came over. It was almost as if he was in a trance or something. People went like that, sometimes. She'd seen it before, when people had accidentally murdered someone or something; racked by guilt, they went mad. She'd heard stories. They went blank and shell-shocked, couldn't hear or see or anything, and eventually just turned their faces to the wall and died.

But that wouldn't happen to John - that _couldn't _happen to John...could it? Surely not. But then again, you could never be sure, could you?

"John?" she said, quietly. He snapped back to attention, as though he'd been asleep.

"What? Who? Where - Sally?" he said, quickly, in a frenzied manner. She handed him the cup of coffee. He put it down, barely even glancing at it. Instead, he stared full force at her. "Please tell me I'm just imagining things." he said, desperately, giving her a pleading, imploring look. "Please tell me I'm dreaming, tell me Sherlock didn't do what I think he did."

There was no easy way to phrase this. She twisted one cheek up in the pitying, apologetic face people make when they have to tell you something you wish wasn't true. "He did, John."

"Oh, God..." John sat down on the curb with a bump. His whole being sagged and collapsed slightly. His shoulders slumped. He looked haggard, once again the distraught soldier who has just witnessed a truly terrible act. "Oh, my God..."

"I'm sorry, John, really I am." Sally sat down next to him, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and turned his dismayed face towards her. Tears brimmed in his eyes and began to roll slowly down his cheeks. Sally found herself close to crying too.

"You told me," he said, his voice quiet but barely wavering despite his crying. "You told me this would happen. I should have listened to you. You always know everything. But...there isn't any way to make this right, is there?" Sally shook her head, dismally. John nodded resignedly. "He's never going to get out from this, is he? And that's if you don't have to shoot him or something trying to get him out of there." Sally nodded. Now was not the time for her to say anything. "This was my greatest fear," John said, his head bowed. "And now it's happening. I can't believe he'd do that. Why? Why would he do that?" Sally opened her mouth to speak but John continued before she could manage it. "He's a psychopath," he said, biting his lip. "And psychopaths get bored."

A shout came from across the street. Lestrade was holding a megaphone. "Sherlock Holmes!" he called. "Come out! You're surrounded, and you're under arrest for murder! We have all the evidence! Look, Sherlock, there's really no point hiding. Just come out already!"

"Make me!" came the reply, yelled by Sherlock at the top of his voice through the thick curtains.

John began to shake violently, sobbing. Sally inched closer. John lifted his tear-stained face to her. "My best friend," he said, thickly. "Is a murderer."

"I know." she said, and embraced him.


End file.
